


and they have escaped the weight of darkness

by somethingradiates (orphan_account)



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith
Genre: Canon - Movie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/somethingradiates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they fall together, but they never quite manage to fall back apart. </p><p>(a series of small scenes, second-person pov, alternating between abe and henry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and they have escaped the weight of darkness

**Author's Note:**

> this became much sadder than i was intending.

_This is against God_ , you whisper into the dark. Henry’s mouth moves low and sweet over your neck, over your shoulder, and some small part of yourself tells you to keep your mouth shut, to enjoy Henry’s moment of madness while you can. 

(Because – and you know this, somewhere quiet in the back of your mind – you want this, you have wanted this for a long time. You dream about Henry and his hands and his sharp, clever mouth, and you wake up with sweat cooling on your skin and bitterness at the back of your mouth.)

 _You are against God_ , Henry says, voice low and somewhere deep in his throat. You shudder against his sheets. _And I am against God. Thou shalt not kill, Abraham, do you remember?_

You remember. Your hands clutch at Henry’s pale shoulders, and you remember.

* * *

Abraham doesn’t understand what he does to you. You don’t understand what he does to you.

* * *

The first time you fuck him – and that’s what he says, you can’t bring yourself to say it aloud – you’re nervous beyond all belief, hand shaking when it wraps its fingers around his ankle. He’s on his back, like a woman, but there’s nothing feminine in the arch of his back and his ragged breathing. It’s his breathing, more than anything, that strikes you as inappropriate, as vaguely sinful; there’s a hitch, a whine, when you crook your fingers once, and he swears at the ceiling, eyes clenched shut, when you do it again, a third time, until he’s grabbing at your wrist and _snarling_. 

_I’m not going to break_ , Henry snaps, and pulls you down for a kiss that’s almost violent. It’s like no kiss you’ve ever felt, nothing like kissing Mary. It feels more like a blow than anything. 

It’s fitting, you think, and kiss him back.

* * *

“Don’t,” Abe says, swatting faintly at your straying hand. “I have to read this.” 

“You don’t have to do anything.” Your voice isn’t supposed to be a purr – you’re no whore, no courtesan, but it’s effective, and Abe sets his thick, dusty lawbook down with a longsuffering sigh. 

“You are insatiable,” he says into your neck. You’ve climbed into his lap, and both of his hands are on your hips, fingertips pressing into the small of your back. You aren’t a particularly undersized man – at least, you like to think not – but Abe has a way of making you feel inordinately small. 

“Who says I wasn’t just looking for the pleasure of your company,” you say, but you both know it’s not true.

* * *

You want to tell Mary, sometimes. You think, late at night, that she ought to know, that she ought to be told by her husband that he sleeps with men – no, with _a_ man, because there has never been another man, there will never be another man. You are Henry’s as much as Henry is yours, as much as you belong to Mary, as much as you belong to your country. 

This is what you tell yourself, anyway, in the dark of your study, those few lone, cool moments after you’ve blown out your candles. You tell yourself that it’s equal.

* * *

Later – later, long after sleek cars replace puttering automobiles replace horse and buggy, long after your Abe becomes Abraham Lincoln, statesman, president, long after everything, you dream. Your kind don’t dream often, and when they do, their dreams are violent and harsh and hungry.

This dream, too, is hungry. You run your fingertips down Abe’s face, unlined and unmarred, thread your fingers through his thick dark hair. You say _Abe, Abraham, look at me – look at me_ , and he doesn’t. You want to beg. You _will_ beg, if he just looks at you. 

He never does. All you want of this world is one look at him – all you want is the knowledge that he should _see_ you one last time. 

You wake up in a strange city, a century and a half after Abe is killed, and feel empty.


End file.
